


Dear You

by the10amongstthese3s



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anne is a mama and she deserves to grieve, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Kind of..., One Shot, Parr is a sweet supportive friend, parrlyn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22396858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the10amongstthese3s/pseuds/the10amongstthese3s
Summary: Whilst searching for something in Anne Boleyn's bedroom, Catherine Parr stumbles upon a box filled with the girl's deepest confessions.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 186





	Dear You

Where was it?

Ah, there it- nope.

Oh, is that-? No again.

Giving a defeated groan, Catherine Parr took a seat on her friend’s bed, looking around the room in awe. How was it possible to be such a complete tramp? Plates and mugs were scattered around the room, clothes in a messy pile on the floor at the foot of the bed. It looked as if a teenage boy inhabited the room, not a former queen.

Now Parr was beginning to see why Jane Seymour nagged at the second queen so much about tidying up her room. Anne Boleyn had the cleaning skills of a toddler.

Deciding she couldn’t spend much longer in that pit, Parr rolled her eyes and dragged herself back to her feet, making her way over to the wardrobe. 

It had to be somewhere in that godforsaken room.

Thinking about it, Parr should probably have known better than to lend Anne a book. The girl never was the best at keeping track of things. It seemed to be every other hour that she lost her phone or wallet. Yet, Parr had trusted the girl.

Any other book and Parr wouldn’t have minded, but this one had to be returned to the library by 6pm that day or she was going to get a major fee. She had reminded the girl yesterday, and the day before, but alas, the book never made an appearance back on her desk.

Hold on. What’s this?

In her frustration, Parr had almost missed the shoebox at the bottom of the wardrobe. Or, maybe it was the jumper laying on top of it that made her almost miss it. Either way, the writer quickly took the box, hoping to god that this final hidden spot would reveal her lost treasure.

When she opened it up though, all she saw was paper. Hundreds of loose pages, all placed delicately in the scruffy old shoebox.

No, not just random pieces of paper.

Letters.

Hundred of letters, all made out to one specific person. The one person Anne would want to contact more than anyone else in this world.

_“My dearest Lilibet.”_

Giving a gasp, Parr frantically pushed the box onto the bed as if it contained a spider’s nest. She shouldn’t be seeing this. Those were private; personal. In her panic though, the woman dropped the box, sending the pages flying around the room.

Oh fuck.

Scrambling to pick up the letters, Parr couldn’t help letting her eyes trail down to the writing. It was surprisingly neat and elegant for the oftentimes chaotic girl - a complete contradiction to how her room portrayed her. The cursive filled pages upon pages: some sad, some sweet, some so completely gut-wrenching that Parr couldn’t bare to look.

The first one she read an exert from filled Parr with a sweet sense of sympathy. She knew the feeling Anne wrote of all too well.

_“I heard a song that made me think of you today. Do you know how you blow me away, sweet girl? In it, the singer says ‘Pride is not the word I’m looking for, There is so much more inside me now’. I hope you never - not for one moment - doubt how proud your mama is of you, Lilibet.”_

Feeling her eyes fill to the brim with tears, Parr decided against reading on, instead gently placing the letter back in the box, handling it with care as if it were Elizabeth herself. She’d noticed the way Anne tensed up whenever Dear Theodosia came on whilst they listened to the Hamilton soundtrack. How had she never put the pieces together before? 

For some reason, Anne never seemed like the type to grieve. Cracks were starting to show in the girl’s disguise now, though. Her heartbreak seeped through the pages, weighing heavy on Parr’s mind.

The papers filled with repeated lines were the worst. You could almost feel the distress in each letter. _“I’m sorry,”_ written what must be a thousand times over one piece of paper until the ink became too smudged to decipher was enough to make Parr avoid those, putting them straight into the box whenever she spotted one.

Sweeter ones were there too though. More light-hearted letters, telling the girl of the new world and all she wished she could show her.

_“I watched a movie with Auntie Kitty today,” Anne wrote in one, “Brave! Oh, how Merida reminded me of you; her wild fiery red hair, her determination, that glint in her eye. I wonder if her mama had as much trouble brushing her hair as I did with yours?_

_You’d have loved it, ma bibiche.”_

The nickname lit a flame of guilt in Parr, reminding her of how private these letters truly were. She shouldn’t be betraying her friend’s trust like this, yet she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

The letter that broke the writer’s heart most was dated back to their second month in the 21st century. They were still new to the world then. So scared and confused. All grieving their past lives, no matter how hard they tried to hide it.

Parr could feel the flood of tears finally escape from her eyes as she read the letter, trailing down her cheeks in an attempt to collide with the ink directly as if wishing to wash it away from the page.

_“These pages bare a burden that is heavy on my soul. People say that pain heals over time, but I’m not sure any amount of time could come close to healing this heartbreak._

_I miss you, little girl.”_

Before Parr could read further, however, the page was snatched from her hand and she was pushed to the ground by a horrified looking Anne Boleyn.

“Get out.”

“I’m sorry, Bo. I was just-“

“GET OUT!”

Parr didn’t get a chance to explain herself that night. Nor the night after that or the night after that. For the next week, Anne barely left her room, refusing to speak to anybody - even Kit.

Every time Parr passed that bedroom door, the writer was consumed with guilt, the words from the letters playing over and over in her mind. She’d betrayed Anne’s trust; exposed her deepest secrets. Not only had she ruined their friendship, she’d also broken her trust. With that, she knew, she’d broken the girl’s heart all over again.

It was almost 3am when Parr decided to take a break from her work to go brew a fresh pot of coffee. After hours of sitting at her desk, staring at a blank page, the writer decided a break was probably for the best. As she reached the kitchen door though, Parr heard a noise coming from inside.

Movement.

Who on earth would be inside the kitchen at 3am? Had Kit had a nightmare and come down without her hearing? Was Jane struggling with her insomnia again? Neither of those options made Parr feel any less anxious about the strange sounds.

Growing concerned, Parr pushed the door open, only to be met by a zombie-like set of eyes gazing back at her.

As soon as she registered what was going on, Anne pushed herself to stand up straight and began searching for a way out. However, to her dismay, the only exit was through the doorway Parr was frozen in. 

There was nowhere to run.

“Hey, Bo… How are you feeling?” Parr asked, earning a scoff from the younger girl.

Why would Parr care how she was feeling? She’d already ruined one week for the girl, was she aiming to make her even more miserable for another?

“Why bother asking? Just read my diary instead,” Anne mumbled, turning to the bread on the counter. The girl just focused on making her toast, refusing to look up at the worried woman. She could feel anger bubbling inside of her but, besides that, was a deep sense of shame.

“Annie, I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t have read them, I was just looking for my book and I dropped them all and-“

“Oh, screw you, Parr! You were being nosey. Why can’t you just admit that? You saw my pathetic attempt at therapy and decided to study my writing like some school child’s essay!” Anne wasn’t joking around. The pain and anger on her face didn’t quite manage to mask the terror she felt though. Parr could see the fear, the regret, in those perfect eyes. 

If there was one thing Parr understood though, it was grieving a daughter. 

“Bo, I would never judge you. I know I broke your trust but please believe me when I say I never meant to hurt you. You don’t have to hide your pain from me,” Parr pleaded, desperate for some sort of response other than anger. “I know it’s hard to talk about but I’m here for you, Annie. I will always be here for you.”

Maybe it was due to the exhaustion of crying non-stop for the past week but, without even realising what she was doing, Anne felt her body begin to convulse with violent sobs. Without a second thought, Parr pulled the girl into her arms, holding her close as she wailed. At that moment, Anne was too tired to feel self-conscious about breaking down or worried about waking the others. 

For the first time in a long time, the girl allowed herself to finally let down her walls, exposing her vulnerable truth to the survivor.

It felt like hours that they sat there on the kitchen floor, Parr holding her fragile friend close as if fearing that she may fall apart if her grip loosened. They didn’t say much; just occasional soft reassurances from the writer and whimpers from Anne.

Once Anne was finally clam enough, Parr lead her upstairs, climbing into bed beside her.

The room before seemed spotless compared to how it was now. The poor girl really had ceased to function since their fight, Parr realised with a sigh, tugging the girl in closer to her side.

“Does it help? Writing to her, I mean,” Parr asked after a while, pressing a gentle kiss to the girl’s forehead as she sniffled.

“Sometimes,” Anne answered quietly, pulling a blanket around her shoulders as she rested her head against Parr. “I know she can’t read them but it… it’s still nice to talk to her. I feel like people just expect me to move on and pretend she never existed sometimes. Pretend I don’t remember the way she’d hold onto my necklace for comfort when Henry raised his voice, or how she’d beg me to sing for her each night before bed. I miss her, Cathy. I miss her so much. I just want to make her proud but what if… what if I’m not enough?”

With that, Anne began to cry again, curling up against Parr’s side as the older girl gently stroked her back. She didn’t deserve this pain. Nobody deserved that pain.

Thinking for a moment, Parr contemplated her words before finally speaking up, still holding the grieving mother close.

“You are more than enough, Bo. I promise you, your little girl would be so proud of you. I drove myself crazy worrying I wasn’t searching hard enough for Mae - telling myself that I could do so much better - so I understand your pain. Torturing ourselves helps nobody though. You know Elizabeth wouldn’t want that for you. Not our Bess.”

Our Bess. 

Of course. It was so easy to forget that Parr had a hand in raising the girl too. That, without her, Elizabeth would never have even become queen. Anne wasn’t the only one mourning the fiery-haired girl. 

Why should she be ashamed of her grief anyway? Jane wasn’t. Aragon wasn’t. So why should she be? 

As if hearing her thoughts, Parr gave a small smile, gently wiping the girl’s cheeks as she spoke. “You deserve to grieve, Bo. I’m proud of you for finding a way to express yourself. You’ve done so well to cope, even whilst suffering in silence.”

Anne just smiled in response to that, a blush playing at her cheeks as the writer stroked the stray hairs out of her blotchy face. Parr may have made a mistake but, Anne had to admit, she was still the person she trusted most in this world. If anyone was going to find those letters, she was glad it had been Parr.

It felt nice to finally have the weight of her secrets lifted from her shoulders. To be able to finally relax and be truthful about her feelings.

Pressing a playful kiss to the girl’s nose, Parr couldn’t help but grin at the sweet giggle she received. At least she knew she wasn’t alone now. That, if she needed it, she could confide in Parr any time. 

Sometimes, we all need to vent, after all.

“Hey, maybe we could write letters together one day? It might be nice to talk to Elizabeth again,” Parr suggested hesitantly, making the girl look up with wide eyes. Was she being serious?

“I… I’d like that.”

Maybe lost lives aren’t the best thing to connect over, but they sure do help to create a magnetic bond. 

Once Parr fell asleep that night, Anne reached into her bedside table, cautiously pulling out a notepad and pen. There was only one phrase running through her mind in that moment. One thing she knew to be true.

_“My dearest Lilibet,_

_Everything is going to be okay.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, lovely! 💚 Tumblr requested Anne angst and Parrlyn so here we go! I hope it's okay!! Longer than usual! I think this fic may have destroyed my final brain cell 🦆


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